Jesse Malin
The Heat
2004 Artemis


For the too-young-to-have-been-there few who mythologized Max's, who frothed over CREEM, who stickied-up Cyrinda Foxe pics in Rock Scene, who basically purchased the Summer of Hate punk myth at a tender age (or anyone with a bug-eyed fascination for the broken and the fucked-up) can find in Malin's libretto damn creditable commentary. He's Paul Simon for the sub-Blank Generation set, aging gracefully among his barstool-warming peers, those who aren't dead, jailed or making families.

See, the 36-year-old Malin has finally discovered subtlety, and, more importantly, sincerity. His well-moneyed '90s stint with Columbia's creeper-and-tat crew D Generation did nothing if not establish the singer as a throaty, vowel-swallowing poseur with nary a subtle bone in his body (the perfect spiked-top power pop of "She Stands There" notwithstanding). Later, the U.K press' take on Malin's 2002 Ryan Adams-helmed solo debut, The Fine Art of Self Destruction, was downright blowjobian and difficult to choke down—Malin's dude-with-an-acoustic folk makeover came off forced and predictable. Worse, the nostalgic bent of the songs seemed guessed at, dissimulated, as if belonging to somebody else. As a result, the record dragged and left little impression. D Generation was no Replacements, so, Malin, then, was no Westerberg.

Well, that was then. Now we can utter Malin's name alongside the erstwhile 'Mats frontman 'cause he's hauled himself out of songwriter adolescence, and Jesus has he come a long way; Malin is able to pen songs with genuine (read: essential) empathy and sorrow.

Using lower Manhattan as a template, the singer owns the voice of the downtrodden and his "junk sick friends," as much as he is the disconnected romantic still in love with the one that got away. Single "bus stop" moms, Britney-clone street whores, drunks, and child beaters populate the songs.

On "Indian Summer" he's the glum optimist reminiscing about a dead chum, his mother, and his pop ("Further than my father/life for him was harder"). "Arrested" finds Malin mapping futile street hustle lives; the lyrical melancholy mirrors the musical restraint completely. And, like any worthy songsmith, there's loving cops: spot the Gin Blossoms' "Found Out About You" nick on "About You;" Beatle George's soaring "And Your Bird Can Sing" riff on "New World Order;" Lennon's "How Do You Sleep" nod on "Mona Lisa."

Dropped names (Tennessee Williams, Buddy Holly, Shane McGowen, Chet Baker, Ralph Kramden) reek of overreach, but can be forgiven: as a lyricist, Malin's not offering up narratives as much as he's stringing together images of lowlife winners and losers caught in impossible situations. Of course rock 'n' roll never succeeds without the pretense, and "Basement Home" chokes on it's own piano-lullaby ostentation and regrettable lines ("I'm sinking down on your love/Where is the God above.")

Ornamented with strings, pump organ, piano, pedal steel and lots of layered guitars — and a roundelay of guest star pals with similar haircuts and attitude (Pete Yorn, Ryan Adams, Tommy Stinson etc.) — this self-produced album brims with pop song hookla, gentle ostinato, and the occasional fat riff.

It's true, most of Malin's generation may have been forced to forfeit their dreams and settle into lives of dull repetition (they've grown up), we learn by The Heat's end that the songwriter is grateful for his lot in life. It's that humility that allows us to take him seriously.